Melancholy Hill
by breathing is over-rated
Summary: John has been struggling with the delusion of a tall, handsome boy for many years now. It's his final year of secondary school and he can't take the hallucinations anymore.


**Melancholy Hill**

Summary: John has been struggling with the delusion of a tall, handsome boy for many years now. It's his final year of secondary school and he can't take the hallucinations anymore.  
Rating: T  
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, they belong to BBC Sherlock and Arthur Conan Doyle.  
AN- This is just a little fic I wrote while listening to Melancholy Hill by the Gorillaz

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A calm wind fluttered through rustling leaves in the canopy of the lone tree, carrying the warm breeze with it. The cool grass flickered lazily, licking at the clothes of the sandy haired boy who sat there. John Watson looked down at the city from what was probably the only grassy hill in London. He sighed and lay back against the green to look at the sky peeking through the mottled leaves. It would soon be summer break; he'd have go back to his disjointed family and leave this behind.

"What's wrong, John?" A silky baritone voice enquired. John didn't look, he didn't need to.  
"You know exactly what's wrong." He answered. The dark haired boy wandered over to him, looking down over his face to block his view with spectacular galaxy eyes that John couldn't help but gaze into.  
"Yes, but it's better when you say it." The boy hummed. His black suit was crisp, perfect. John sat up, wrapping his arms around his scruffy jean-clad knees.  
"I'm going home." He said, eyes fixed on the ground. "And I can't take you with me, Sherlock." Sherlock cocked his head, John couldn't see him but he knew he did. It was a little quirk that his figment had begun back in his second year of secondary school, two years after he'd started appearing.  
"Why not?" Sherlock asked as he sat down beside John, just in his peripheral vision.  
"I can't deal with you anymore. They wouldn't understand. I can't get sectioned, Sherlock, I'd never get into the army then." Came his weary reply. John had thought about this for a long time and his imaginary friend knew all about it too, how could he not when he lived inside his mind? The figment just liked him to speak. He said it made him feel more human.  
"We'd just have to be careful, we could do it John." Sherlock said, shuffling closer but not touching. He never touched. John wasn't even sure if he was capable of touching or if it would just be like a ghost, passing right through.  
"No, Sherlock. Enough is enough." He answered firmly. Sherlock always managed to make him do things, make him turn his head, but this time he couldn't allow it. He was in control, he had to be. This was for his own good.

"When I walk off this hill, I will leave you behind." John said, it wasn't a suggestion. Something in Sherlock broke. The blonde haired boy watched as he saw the light shining through, the black suit seemed to fade to a dull gray.  
"Okay John." He was resigned now. "Just don't leave yet." It sounded so much like a last request and in some ways, it was. John nodded his head and lay back again, Sherlock lay back with him.

They lay in silence as the sky turned from turquoise to cyan to a ray of vibrant red and white in streaked patterns as the setting sun caught the clouds. John knew he should have been back on school site ages ago but he couldn't bring himself to move. Despite everything, he really didn't want to leave Sherlock. The figment had been his lifeline in his school years, he was just so smart. He could read people and he told John things, sometimes little things like what people had eaten for breakfast and sometimes bigger things like who had plagiarised their coursework. John never managed to work out how he knew these things but he never had chance questioned them. Sherlock always explained how he'd deduced everything. There were times when John had been sure that Sherlock was a real person but no, no one else had ever been able to see him. Many times John had almost been sent to therapy, he just managed to escape being labelled by a hairs breadth and with his chosen career path he really couldn't afford a label attached to him.

The sky was now almost completely dark. They would soon come looking for him. John stretched and stood.  
"I'm sorry, Sherlock." He whispered but when he turned, the boy wasn't there. For a moment, John thought the tears would overwhelm him but he pulled himself together. This was how it was supposed to be. Holding his head up, John Watson began the walk back down the hill, feeling his old friend slip away from him.

Behind him, a figure stood with glassy eyes and a broken knew that these feelings weren't real, nothing about him was real. He wanted to exist, he wanted to survive and, more than anything, he wanted to stay with the boy that had created him. But what could he do? He was only a figment, after all.


End file.
